Oblivious
by kimcooperx
Summary: As the seventy-third Hunger Games draws nearer, Peeta finds himself desperate to overcome his fears and talk to the girl of his dreams. The unobtainable and completely oblivious girl of his dreams...


This is the first time I've turned my hand to Hunger Games fic and I hope I've done it justice. I have taken a bit of artistic license, making Peeta older than Katniss by a few months, meaning he would have just turned 17 by the time he was reaped. This story is set exactly one year before the two are reaped, making him 16.

Please, read and review.

Thank you.

* * *

><p>His hands were covered in a thin film of sweat and flour, which he hastily wiped against his once-white apron. She was there again, just staring at the fancy cakes, the ones he'd iced. She always came by with her sister and, each time, he promised himself he would speak to her but, each time, she would nudge her sister's shoulder and the two would head back to the Seam. But this time her sister – he forgot her name, though he knew it was a flower – was engrossed. In the center of the window stood his latest cake, one his father had been so proud of he had cleared the entire window to show it off. "It's so beautiful, Katniss," he heard the sister say, her hands pressed against the glass as she stared at the intricate flowers he had so carefully created. He would have to clean the windows before his mother returned to the bakery but, for now, he didn't care. All he cared about was the fact that Katniss Everdeen was outside his bakery. And he was going to speak to her.<p>

Once more, he wiped his hands down on the apron before moving towards the door, which he opened carefully. Her sister was still so amazed, moving her head this way and that to get a better look at the pretty flowers when he opened the door, the tiny bell above it tinkling and scaring the small, blonde girl. Katniss looked up and, for a moment, caught Peeta's eye. He saw it there, a strange intensity that left his throat dry, the palms of his hands damp once more. "Come on, Prim," she said, nudging her sister's shoulder as he had seen her do so many times. And with that she was gone, before he'd even had a chance to speak. The baker's son looked crestfallen as the Seam girl walked away, never looking back.

His shoulders slumped and he headed back inside, where the dough he had been kneading lay forgotten on the counter. His brothers would tease him if they knew he hankered over a girl from the Seam and his mother's reaction was unimaginable, though he imagined he'd at least get a good thump for it. His father though... He'd approve, he supposed – he always raved about the squirrel she traded with him. "Straight through the eye. Clean shot, every time. You'd never think it from her, would you?" Thinking back to his father's own situation, he shook his head as he returned his attention to the dough. No, perhaps his father wouldn't approve...

He lost himself in his baking, his cinnamon buns and the sour dough loaves the Mayor would buy every Monday, without fail. He had never had a taste for the loaf, himself, but then again, he had only ever tasted it once it had gone stale... The sixteen year old placed his newly shaped would-be breads into the oven on a large, metal tray and began to tidy, securing the top of the bag of flour, placing the yeast back in the cupboard. He wiped down the surfaces and even swept the floor. It was a job well done, if you asked him. Though his mother never did. He was not alerted of her arrival, the light tinkle of the bell going missed by the young man but he was made very aware of her presence within seconds of the door closing, "Peeta Mellark!" she called across the small bakery in her shrill voice. "Have those dirty Seam girls been here again?" Her youngest son sighed and picked up a rag, remaining silent as he left the shop to clean the tiny hand prints Prim had left on the window, not bothering to get into another argument that they weren't dirty.

That night, the subject of 'those dirty Seam girls' was brought up once more, as his father dished out bowlfuls of squirrel stew, served up with an unleavened bread. "They left grubby hand prints all over the window," she stated, holding her bowl up as her husband spooned in her serving. "You think their mother would at least make sure they were clean before they went out in public..."

"But they were clean," Peeta protests weakly, his eyes not leaving his still empty bowl as his father moved round the table. Technically, it wasn't a lie - Prim had been clean, with a little pink bow in her hair, even if Katniss had been covered in a fine layer of grime, mud and goodness only knew what else. He had noticed she had dirt under her fingernails when she nudged Prim and there was a small black smudge just under her left eye. So, technically, only one of them had been clean but Katniss hadn't touched the window, hadn't left her mark on the glass. No, the only mark she left had been on him.

"Oh, Peeta," said his mother, adopting that lofty tone of voice she always used when talking about Seam girls. "All Seam girls are dirty... And I don't just mean the dirt you can see." Her upper lip curled slightly and Peeta's eyes widened, his face flushing with embarrassment as a heavy sloshing of squirrel stew landed in his bowl. "I'm so glad your brother married a nice girl... I was rather worried about him landing himself with someone from the Seam after he got in with that crowd..." Peeta tunes the rest of what she says out. He doesn't really care about his brother's new wife. Or the face his other brother was making at the latest rant. Or the hand prints on the window. All he cares about as he dips his bread into the stew is Katniss.

* * *

><p>The next day is Monday which means service in the mines resume, the Mayor buys his sour dough and Peeta goes back to school. Sometimes he'd much rather stay in the bakery all week, where he can bake and ice and create beautiful things. At school he's confined to the history of Panem, the most basic of literacy skills and some simple mathematics, no harder than what his father taught him when he helped measure ingredients as a child. He's smarter than most of his class and he finds himself bored in school. With nothing to occupy him, his mind often drifts to Katniss who sits by the window, staring straight ahead and, he can almost be one hundred percent sure, taking none of the lesson in. She always seems so distracted, as though a huge weight rests on her shoulders. Unlike Peeta, she rarely smiles and never in class.<p>

As usual, his lessons breeze by. He sketches through his history lesson though Delly chastises him for this when she catches him. Its easier to identify some of his sketches than it is others: some are ideas for cakes, others are landscapes such as the District 12 square or the view from the bakery. Then there are the more obscure ones like a loose braid unravelling against a leather lapel, a dandelion by a burnt loaf of bread... Delly rolls her eyes and tells him to pay attention.

At lunch, she sits with Madge while he sits with his friends. Some of the girls beside him gossip about Gale Hawthorne, a boy from the Seam who almost every girl finds so handsome. Peeta hears one of his friends say under her breath, "I'd never marry him though. He's from the Seam..." He doesn't like Gale, much. Gale is Katniss' friend, the only boy he's ever seen her around. He bets Katniss thinks he's attractive...

* * *

><p>The square was quiet, the doors of every establishment bolted shut as families huddled around, desperate to cling onto their children. In the small house above the bakery, the Mellark family sat by their kitchen table, eating soup and avoiding the topic of the reaping. Mrs. Mellark had been anxious for days, dropping plates and burning bread whenever anyone mentioned the Hunger Games and now that the day of reaping was upon them, her eyes burned red, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she lifted her spoon to her lips.<p>

This year she had expected it to be easier, what with only two of her three sons eligible to be the male tribute for the district but alas, she was no better than previous years. She fussed over their hair, the collar of the white shirts she had laid out for them and, whenever silence echoed around the room, promptly burst into tears. It was the only time Peeta saw his mother express so much emotion and, frankly, he couldn't blame her. For the most part, Peeta had no worries. Sometimes he worried that his cakes would burn and his mother would thump him and sometimes he wished he was a few inches taller but, ultimately, he lived a relatively worry free life. Until the weeks running up to the reaping. In those weeks he worried for himself, for his brothers, for his mother, for his friends and, increasingly, he worried for Katniss. He had never had to sign up for tesserae – none of his family had – but, having watched Katniss wheel her meagre rations home in a wheelbarrow, he knew she was forced to. Each year, her name went in more and more, increasing her chance of being picked. He doubted he could watch the games if she was reaped... As dramatic as it seemed, f he had to see her mutilated and killed – for that was always the case for District 12 tributes – he wasn't entirely sure he could go on...

The soup went cold and uneaten.

By two o'clock he and his family had headed to the square, where the eligible teenagers were lined up by sex and age. Instantly he spotted Katniss, staring straight ahead as she did in school and doing her best to look indifferent. From the crowd of families, he spotted her mother and her sister looking fearful. He wonders how they would survive without Katniss, knowing that she provides so much for the family.. Perhaps, his father would help them...

He missed the opening speech as he thought of his own family, hoping and willing another family would feel the misfortune, rather than his own. He almost instantly felt guilty for this thought and even more so when he caught a glimpse of Gale Hawthorne from the corner of his eye. As Effie Trinkett began to claw the bowl containing the female names, Peeta went into a panic, his eyes closed as he repeated in his mind 'Please not Katniss' as a mantra. He allowed himself to exhale the breath he had been holding as a girl in the year below him was reaped, her mother wailing hysterically in the crowd. And now it was his turn. Once again, he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, desperate that he and his brother would make it through the reaping. His short nails dug into his palm and he was sure he would vomit as Effie opened out the name of the boy to be sent to his death. He watched, numb, as Effie called out the name of 'Peter Emerson' his heart almost giving in as her high pitched, Capitol accent pronounced the first syllable of his name.

And so that was that. He had survived the 73rd Hunger Games by the skin of his teeth and, while Peter and the female tribute's families would clutch onto their children, crying and saying their goodbyes, the Mellarks headed home for a fine feast, thankful that they had lasted another year at least. Each year was easier on his mother – next year, he would be her only son eligible and the year after that would be his last chance to be reaped. By the 76th Hunger Games, they would be safe, a sentiment which pleased Mrs. Mellark as she cut her sons large slices of the tart her husband had baked. While, on the whole, the family never went hungry, Peeta had to admit that the food he gorged on that night was definitely the best he had ever had.

Life slowly came back to the square after dinner, with many of the teens and young adults meeting there, thankful to have lasted another year. Soon enough, there was a low hum of life at the Hob, where his father had made him promise to stay away from as a child and Peeta made his excuses to head out himself. Most of his friends had chosen to stay at home after the reaping, enjoying the finest foods their little money could afford and preparing for school the next day but he could not stay at home where, already, his mother had returned to the woman he knew, complaining about the seam children, about how sullen he looked, how messy his brother's rolls were getting... He pulled on his thin jacket and headed out into the square where people gathered in groups, talking about those poor families.

There wasn't many places in District 12 where he could go... He could wander up towards Victor's Village which was largely empty, save for the house occupied by the village drunk but he wasn't sure he wanted to be around the ominous village, which told the story of District 12's misfortune in the games. He thought of heading to the Justice Building but founding himself thinking of the latest tributes who would have spent their last moments with their parents just hours before... And so he stayed in the square, making idle chit chat with some people he vaguely knew from school and a few adults who knew his parents well and congratulated him on 'lasting'. Their congratulations made him – and many other teenagers – feel uncomfortable but not half as much as the people outside the Hob, the gamblers taking their winnings after having bet on the tributes. He wondered how many had bet on Katniss...

His eyes found her before he realised he had been looking, her long braid swishing behind her as she moved swiftly across the square, weaving amongst the crowds as she headed for Rooba the Butcher's. She was alone, her short, blonde shadow seemingly nowhere to be seen. Peeta's lips curved into a lopsided smile and he excused himself from the conversation he had been involved in and headed off in her direction. Filled with food and thanks and confidence, the baker's son headed towards the butcher shop, sure that he would finally have the chance to speak to the girl of his dreams.

He wondered what she could possibly be doing with Rooba for he doubted she would be trading at this hour; from his father's words, the girl always worked early. And that was when he saw him – Gale Hawthorne, looking tall and lean as he leaned against the side of the building. His face cracked into a wide smile, something which was mirrored in Katniss' own. Peeta's heart gave one hard and fast thump against his chest which seemed to wind him from within. Gale. He thought back to all the times he'd saw her smile and was pained to realise she was with Gale in every instance. He swallowed hard as he turned his back on Rooba's place, his head and shoulders slumping as he dragged himself back towards the bakery. It would always be Gale. Gale was the one to make her smile. As he hung his thin, summer jacket up on the coat stand, Peeta wondered if, perhaps, it would have been better to have been reaped...


End file.
